Treasure
by janeyo1979
Summary: Ragnar chooses Athelstan above all the gold and jewels. Will he prove to be the best treasure of all?


"I'll take the priest," The one who looks most terrifying is the one who speaks, yet he is the one who saved me back at Lindisfarne. His name is Radnar Lothbrook.

I dare to steal a glance in his direction, gripping the gospel of St. John closer to my chest.

"As my slave." Ragnar Lothbrok adds.

For some reason, my heart fills with hope. Out of all the terrifying men, sent from the devil, there is something about him which intrigues me.

The Earl, seated on his high throne nods, and people laugh. I suppose compared to all the precious gold, I am not worth much in their eyes.

Ragnar Lothbrok grabs the rope around my neck and walks from the hall. I have no choice but to follow him.

My feet hurt so much and my neck too, from being dragged along for hours along the rough paths and up the steep slopes. I'm grateful when my captor stops and turns around.

"We'll bed down here, priest," he says.

I pull the heavy pack of provisions off my shoulder and he takes it from me. I look around the place, a flat piece of land, surrounded by high hills on three sides. It's beautiful, just like all the places I have seen so far in this strange land. I grip the gospel of St John closer to my chest. There are so many questions that I wish to ask the man called Ragnor Lothbrok, but I don't know how he will react. On the ship he spoke to me briefly, his eyes flashing with emotions I could barely perceive, but now he says I am his slave. Brother Cuthbert told me a story of St. Patrick who was taken as a slave as a child. Perhaps God has some plan for me, some reason why I am here in this heathen land.

Ragnor Lothbrok is unpacking his provisions from the furs. There are a couple of pots and a small amount of food.

"Can I help Ragnar Lothbrok?" I ask carefully.

He looks up and tosses me the pots. I catch the first one, but miss the second because of still gripping the bible and my hands bring tied. He smiles. "Get some water," he says, pointing to the stream just below the flat area. He releases the rope he has held since we left the boat.

I pause for a moment. Could I escape? I lower myself down, pick up the other pot and scoop up the end of the rope.

He is still smiling, staring at me. "Thinking about running, priest?" he asks.

"To where might I run, Ragnar Lothbrok?" I reply, with a sigh. I already know that this place, these people are so different to any person I have ever met. I place the Bible with reverence on a flat rock lying near the campsite.

His smile grows, he smooths out his firs on the ground and reclines back. I walk towards the stream and fill the pots, bringing them back up the hill. I hold them out.

Ragnar Lothbrok takes one of the pots and begins to gulp down the water. I just stand there, suddenly aware of my own thirst. He looks up. "Drink," he says.

I don't have to be told twice. I lift the pot to my lips and gulp down the precious fluid, offering thanks to God inside my head. I drain it back because I don't know when there will be more. Both water and food had been scarce on the voyage and undoubtedly labelled as slave that will be no different.

Looking up, Ragnar Lotbrok is still regarding me. I wish I knew if his smile is kind or taunting.

I wipe my mouth with my bound arms and swallow hard. "Thank you, Ragnar Lothbrok," I say.

His eyes narrow slightly. "Thank you? Why? You got the water."

I open my mouth to say something, but I realise that I don't know how exactly to phrase it in his language. I wish I knew more words. "Is it not proper that a slave thanks his master?" I temporise, looking intently at him for any indication of his humour.

He laughs and stands up. Fear grows in me, as he draws a knife from his belt. I close my eyes and begin to mutter. "Pater Noster."

The knife slices through the tight rope around my wrists. I open my eyes and look up at him. "Thank you," I repeat. I try to smile back, hoping that will mean further kindness, but I am unsure if I achieve it. There is not much reason for me to smile right now.

He raises a hand and I flinch away. But instead of a slap, he ruffles my filthy hair.

I look up again, incredulous.

"Help me collect some firewood, priest," he says. "Or we'll freeze tonight."

I nod and do as he says, as pins and needles start in my hands. I'm grateful to be free of the rope on my wrists, but struggle to comprehend why he has liberated me. Perhaps he knows that I was honest before, that there really is nowhere for me to go in this strange place. I don't even know exactly where I am. Somewhere to the north east, that much is certain by the language, but exactly where? Perhaps now is not the best time to ask.

I begin to pick up twigs and sticks from the ground, eager to feel the warmth of a fire. The air is cold, full of frost and my damp robe is doing very little to keep me warm.

When I have collected a handful, I take them back to the camp site and put them down. Ragnar Lothbrok strides back himself with armfuls of bigger branches. He looks at my pile and shrugs. I watch as he sinks to the ground and begins to strike at a flint next to a small pile of dry leaves.

"More water," he says.

I nod and pick up the pots again and make my way to the stream. The light is now fading down behind the mountains and in spite of my fear and grief, I feel exhausted. Sleep on the boat had been impossible; the most I managed was a light dose for a few minutes at a time. I fill the pots in the icy water and suppress my yawn, before I pick up the loop of the rope still around my neck and climb back up the bank.

The warm glow of the fire is a welcome sight. I make my way towards it and put down the pots.

"Sit down Priest," Ragnar Lothbrok instructs pointing at the fur on the ground. I grab the Bible off the rock and slide to the ground on the very edge of the fur, as far from him as I can get. I tuck my treasure close to my chest again, not wanting him to handle it again with his rough heathen hands.

After being cold for days, the fire is lovely. It's not like I did not know cold at Lindisfarne, but the voyage was the coldest I have ever been in my whole life. It even killed poor Brother Cenwulf, God rest his soul. I clutch the Bible closer. At least I said the last rites for him before I told my captor he was dead. Although I could not anoint him, I hope God will understand in the circumstances. At least I was able to do something for him. I saw the pile of the bodies of my brothers back at the monastery. I just hope that someone got away to raise the alarm. At least they'll get a proper Christian burial, unlike poor Brother Cenwulf. I shiver at the memory of the big man throwing him over the side of the ship.

"Here." I look up and see that same man, Ragnar Lothbrok, holding out a chunk of bread, half of the loaf he had purchased in the town.

"Thank you," I say, taking the bread and tearing off a chunk. I utter thanks to God and shove the morsel into my month. It's hard and dry, and tastes as strange as this strange land, but I'm too hungry to care.

"May I ask you something, Ragnar Lothbrok?" I ask after some minutes of silence. My confidence is growing thanks to warmth and food.

"Go on," he replies, stoking the fire.

"I know you said you did not know why you spared my life, but can I ask you why you chose to take me as your slave over all the gold?"

"You like asking questions, don't you, priest?" He chuckles.

"I've often been told that I question things too much. Yet it seems to me that your people thought your decision to take me was the wrong one."

He waves his hand over the flame. "Perhaps I don't think like them. Perhaps I have ideas they cannot comprehend. But they will. Soon enough."

His fingers caress the heat, almost as if they are dancing.

His words do not really answer my question, but my bravery fails me. Perhaps I'm better off not knowing. He is looking at me again, holding out one of the pots of water.

"Thank you," I say yet again.

He nods. "Bed down," he says. "We have another long walk in the morning."

I want to ask where we are going, what his home is like, but there is something more pressing. "Ragnar Lothbrok, before I sleep I must pray." I won't ask. It is important to me and I need him to understand that.

"Pray?"

I nod. "Back at Lindisfarne, we prayed for most of the day, even when we worked."

"What did you pray for?"

"To praise God, to thank him for his blessings."

"Your God really die on a cross?"

"Yes."

"Then he was weak. Why would you worship a weak God?"

"Because... Jesus died for us. To save us from our sins."

"What sins?"

"All sins. But Jesus did not stay dead. He rose and went to... I do not know the word for it in your tongue. I suppose there is not one."

"When we die, we believe that those who are deserving will feast in the halls with the Gods. We call this Valhalla."

I look at the pot of water, knowing that I should tell him how wrong he is to talk all about his false gods. Perhaps in time, but not yet... "We call our version of Valhalla, Heaven," I reply instead.

"Heaven." He repeats the new word carefully, saying it awkwardly, just as he said my name on the boat and in the hall.

"Yes heaven." Where most of my brothers are. Where I should be. Why did he spare me?

"Say your prayers, priest."

I stand and move away a short distance and get to my knees. Back home it would be time for Vespers. Pain stabs my heart. Perhaps I'll never get to sing the psalms with my brothers in Christ again. I make the sign of the cross and begin the chant quietly.

"Deus, in adiutorium meum intende. Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina. Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto. Sicut erat in principio, et nunc et semper, et in saecula saeculorum. Amen. Alleluia."

Somehow these words have so much more meaning to me now. Tears prick my eyes.

Please help me Lord. Let me understand your will.

My mind cannot recall what should be the texts for today. I'm not even sure what day it is. Have five days passed or is it six?

A psalm jumps into my mind. I hope I can recall all the words.

"I cry aloud to God; I cry aloud, and he hears me.

In times of trouble I pray to the Lord; all night long I lift my hands in prayer, but I cannot find comfort.

When I think of God, I sigh; when I meditate, I feel discouraged.

He keeps me awake all night; I am so worried that I cannot speak.

I think of days gone by and remember years of long ago.

I spend the night in deep thought; I meditate, and this is what I ask myself:

"Will the Lord always reject us? Will he never again be pleased with us?

Has he stopped loving us? Does his promise no longer stand?

Has God forgotten to be merciful? Has anger taken the place of his compassion?"

Then I said, "What hurts me most is this— that God is no longer powerful."

I will remember your great deeds, Lord; I will recall the wonders you did in the past.

I will think about all that you have done; I will meditate on all your mighty acts."

I swallow hard and carefully open the Bible. I know I am meant to sing another psalm, but I do not have the heart to do so. Brother Cuthbert had me take the lead on the Nones, he said my singing voice was a gift from God, but here, echoing in this strange place, it just makes me sad.

I utter the words of my chosen reading, and finish with a sign of the cross. I close the Bible and kiss my cross. I pick up the rope and return to the fire.

"Sleep now," Ragnor Lothbrok instructs. Very deliberately, he takes hold of the rope that still is bound around my neck. So that is staying for now.

I swallow hard and lie down.


End file.
